{"id":2409,"date":"2026-10-16T09:16:20","date_gmt":"2026-10-16T13:16:20","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/canasanta.ca\/?p=2409"},"modified":"2026-10-16T15:21:50","modified_gmt":"2026-10-16T19:21:50","slug":"los-perros-de-la-luz-gelico-poemas","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/canasanta.ca\/en\/cultura\/poesia\/los-perros-de-la-luz-gelico-poemas\/","title":{"rendered":"G\u00eblico :: Poes\u00eda"},"content":{"rendered":"<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><em>Selecci\u00f3n del poemario Los perros de la luz, recuperada del archivo de Ca\u00f1asanta.<\/em><\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<h2 class=\"wp-block-heading\"><strong>Una mujer que se pierde<\/strong><\/h2>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\" style=\"font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 19px; line-height: 1.8; white-space: pre-wrap;\">Sojourner Truth tambi\u00e9n tend\u00eda sus ojos en el pecho,\r\npues tuvo un juglar que amaba sus brillos;\r\ny yo vengo cantando como si tu vientre se llamase Rosa.\r\nO como si Rosa o Isabelle existiese entre los mapas de mis nubes.\r\nNo respires mi silencio, pues el fr\u00edo es un la\u00fad sin cabezas,\r\nuna palabra de espuma que dicta la piel del f\u00e9mur.\r\nYo he querido hacer de tu cuerpo un territorio sin labios,\r\nun lugar enfermo para mis rodillas.\r\nUna noche en que no maldigas tu noche.\r\nSojourner Truth tambi\u00e9n tra\u00eda flores al destierro,\r\nponiendo un h\u00e9roe malvado en mi ropa:\r\nesa libertad que eternamente quiso,\r\nunas peque\u00f1as semillas de hambre verde.\r\nAs\u00ed suceder\u00e1 cuando emigremos al \u00e1rbol\r\ny el reencuentro sea no m\u00e1s que un equilibrio sufrido.\r\nPrefiero que sea tu vientre, oh, Rosa, quien se\u00f1ale la puerta,\r\nquien decida ponerle precio al crimen de un muerto,\r\na esa estatua insoluble que desnuda el llanto.\r\nY me dejar\u00e1s solo, como me ha cedido la memoria,\r\ncomo me has dejado siempre,\r\ncomo siempre despeinas mi absoluto.\r\nEntonces, me convertir\u00e9 en tu deriva.\r\nUn naufragio amarillo en una selva inmadura,\r\nun suplicio veloz entre animales que lloran dormidos,\r\nen un sexo de verbos repleto de cuerdas injustas.<br \/><br \/><br \/><\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<h2 class=\"wp-block-heading\"><strong>Detr\u00e1s de un camino cubierto de hojas secas<\/strong><\/h2>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\" style=\"font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 19px; line-height: 1.8; white-space: pre-wrap;\">yo, el peque\u00f1o Pr\u00edncipe, he crecido\r\ny he tenido miles de amantes en cada planeta\r\n(los amantes no son m\u00e1s que una muerte extra\u00f1a,\r\nun acierto dibujado a erratas).\r\nhe crecido y he\r\nrenegado mi propio tirano\r\n(mis favores saben al plomo de las ciruelas\r\ny la otra mano, toma la sangre de la fiebre,\r\nese enigma que equivale a la distancia).\r\ncuando crec\u00ed, hice el amor en los puentes\r\ny los convert\u00ed, m\u00e1s tarde, en cerezas podridas\r\nen una aventura con puertas y perros.\r\nlo hice con dulce terror\r\npara que las estrellas cayeran all\u00ed, como una\r\nluna ilustrada.\r\npues los ni\u00f1os creyeron la historia\r\nde que mi zorra\r\nment\u00eda en los rosales;\r\npues nunca se ve bien desde adentro\r\ndonde mi asteroide es tan s\u00f3lo un lugar olvidado.\r\n(mi asteroide y yo somos algo:\r\nel final donde comienza la soledad\r\ny sigo hu\u00e9rfano porque he mentido\r\ny s\u00f3lo call\u00e9 cuando fui un hombre)\r\nun pr\u00edncipe es el exilio de los sue\u00f1os\r\npues ya no tengo m\u00e1s islas que nombrar,\r\nni t\u00faneles\r\nni astros\r\nsimplemente soy un sombrero donde\r\nla boa viene a acariciar sus verdades,\r\nlas casas que he dejado pariendo el hambre,\r\nel lugar donde la tristeza es un galope\u2026\r\ntodo, ha mojado el rostro de mi cobard\u00eda\r\n(un hombre no se domestica sino su alma),\r\nel viento que trae el recuerdo del viaje.\r\nes dif\u00edcil crecer y saber que has matado,\r\nque todas las hojas del cierzo huelen a m\u00e1rmol.\r\nfui un pr\u00edncipe sin nombre,\r\nun verdadero asesino con dos caras,\r\nun verdugo con peces en sus venas.\r\nSoy un pr\u00edncipe solo y due\u00f1o del cosmos:\r\nese espacio donde el co\u00e1gulo es irascible,\r\ndonde mi ropa no respira los jueves.\r\nSoy s\u00f3lo eso: tu enemigo y el silencio,\r\nun hombre que ha crecido sin historias<br \/><br \/><br \/><\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<h2 class=\"wp-block-heading\"><strong>Epopeya para un salto inminente<\/strong><\/h2>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\" style=\"font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 19px; line-height: 1.8; white-space: pre-wrap;\">nos escondimos, como el derrumbe de un miedo,\r\ntras aquel muro blanco\r\n&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;.\r\nmuy blanco,\r\na escribir nuestros nombres,\r\na loar como el oto\u00f1o.\r\nEntonces,\r\nescuchamos el misterio, la urgencia infinita del beso,\r\nque descend\u00eda como un \u00e1rbol desnudo\r\ny la soledad hizo leve.\r\nPor primera vez sentiste el fr\u00edo de mis auxilios y\r\nla humedad de un pez convirti\u00f3 en bosques las ficciones.\r\nEn el tacto acudi\u00f3 la promesa para ser libre,\r\nun naufragio inventado sin dioses.\r\nFue aquel muro blanco muy blanco,\r\ndonde nos enteramos que el amor tiene un sexo,\r\nun resquicio abierto a la luz.\r\nYo pude bramar tu piel que nac\u00eda en mi abrupta semilla\r\ny gritar a tu oreja, muy silenciosamente, todos mis escr\u00fapulos;\r\npero en tu boca surg\u00edan gacelas con horror a los mapas.\r\nTu boca fue una p\u00e1gina amarilla, un muro blanco\r\nel lugar donde iban a descansar mis dibujos.\r\nFue detr\u00e1s, ah\u00ed detr\u00e1s,\r\ndonde no conoc\u00ed al mendigo y te convert\u00edas,\r\npor un instante, Rosa Parks de mis sue\u00f1os.\r\nFue all\u00ed, sin dudas, el lugar que siempre recuerdo.<br \/><br \/><br \/><\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<h2 class=\"wp-block-heading\"><strong>I<\/strong><\/h2>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\" style=\"font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 19px; line-height: 1.8; white-space: pre-wrap;\">T\u00fa y yo tenemos algo en com\u00fan:\r\nun anzuelo inocente que traen las fieras,\r\nesas que aparecen en nuestras islas desiertas.\r\nAhora traga este instante en que diez palomas\r\nabren su boca al miedo,\r\ny no entiendo por qu\u00e9 no inventamos\r\nla hora donde nacen los p\u00e1jaros y abedules\r\npara seguir pareciendo semejantes,\r\nocultos, en esa cama de hojas secas\r\nque guarda la verja y tus secretos.\r\nT\u00fa y yo somos un min\u00fasculo p\u00e9talo\r\ndonde corre el pavor de los amantes,\r\nall\u00e1, por ese lugar inquieto en que la primavera\r\nes una ociosa c\u00e1scara muy d\u00e9bil.<br \/><br \/><br \/><\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<h2 class=\"wp-block-heading\"><strong>II<\/strong><\/h2>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\" style=\"font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 19px; line-height: 1.8; white-space: pre-wrap;\">Para Alejandro\r\nOh, hijo. Tarz\u00e1n enfermo.\r\nYo que te constru\u00ed una selva,\r\nentonces los muros te fueron cortos.\r\nUn poeta puede ser la fiebre,\r\nEl esqueleto del est\u00f3mago.\r\nUna locura que s\u00f3lo tiene nombre en la memoria.\r\nNo tengas miedo, esas flores asumen ser un\r\ninfante terrible, un peque\u00f1o Dios en cada puerta.\r\nYo colocar\u00e9 las yerbas de un Nogal muerto entre\r\ntus ventanas y dejar\u00e9 una nota perdonando a los enemigos,\r\nel fuego los cipreses sin sue\u00f1o el abrigo viejo.\r\nLos Grimm pudieron tener sus restos bajo el mar,\r\nuna palabra.\r\nPero yo te constru\u00ed una selva incierta para que duermas\r\ny poder regresar tranquilo a donde est\u00e1 el l\u00edmite:\r\nese espacio tan tuyo entre mi pecho y la muerte.\r\nYo quedo. Oh, hijo. Tarz\u00e1n enfermo.\r\nEn este cosmos tan inconcluso\r\nque s\u00f3lo mira a la culpa y a las bailarinas de plomo.\r\nUna luz en mis dedos tallando tu nombre,\r\nun suspiro que es dulce como el silencio\r\nguardando un animal sin g\u00e9nero, una calma repleta de barcos.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<hr class=\"wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity\" \/>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Poemas de G\u00eblico sobre el amor, el desamparo y la memoria, recuperados de Los perros de la luz y del archivo de Ca\u00f1asanta de 2006.<\/p>","protected":false},"author":284226809,"featured_media":2408,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_wpcom_ai_launchpad_first_post":false,"_jetpack_hide_featured_image":false,"_jetpack_featured_image_duplicate_dismissed":0,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[33205619],"tags":[33206902,33205620],"class_list":["post-2409","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-poesia","tag-archivo-canasanta","tag-poesia"],"acf":{"introduccion":"","fuentes_y_referencias":"<p><strong>Del archivo de Ca\u00f1asanta.<\/strong> Publicado en la primera etapa de la revista y conservado en una copia archivada del 3 de marzo de 2006. La fecha exacta de publicaci\u00f3n original no aparece en la p\u00e1gina recuperada. Texto revisado para esta republicaci\u00f3n, respetando la disposici\u00f3n de los versos y la voz del autor. <a href=\"https:\/\/web.archive.org\/web\/20060303082655\/http:\/\/www.canasanta.com:80\/gelico_poesia1.html\">Consultar el original archivado<\/a>.<\/p>","autor":[743]},"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO Premium plugin v28.1 (Yoast SEO v28.8) - https:\/\/yoast.com\/product\/yoast-seo-premium-wordpress\/ -->\n<title>G\u00eblico :: Poes\u00eda - Ca\u00f1asanta<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"Poemas de G\u00eblico sobre el amor, el desamparo y la memoria. 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